Devil May Cry: The Visitor
by Sonata-Time-Flare-Nocturne-Aoi
Summary: One-Shot Complete! A monk from 'The Lost One' cult has an unexpected visit from the last person he'd ever want to see in person. Rated T for violence and graphic content.


**Story**: Devil May Cry: The Visitor  
**Author**: Nocturne  
**Written**: October 20th, 2019  
**Genre**: General/Tragedy  
**Rating**: T (Violence)  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own Devil May Cry or its badass demon hunter.

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**{One Shot}**

Several miles south of the great wall which divided Red Grave City from the land of Fortuna lay a small monastery. Once upon a time, it would have been majestic. The shape of the building was a dome, with several corridors leading in and out of the main building. At least a dozen pillars held it up. The windows were painted and stained with pictures of religious value. Many of them showed the creation of the earth. The building was constructed out of white marble, and if it were looked after it would look stunning.

However, it lay almost completely in ruin, after years of neglect. Plants littered the corridors, peeping out of jagged cracks in the floor. One of the pillars had been smashed, giving the building a slight slant. Vines of ivy slowly crept up the walls, spreading out in fork-like shapes. A window had been broken, and glass littered the floor.

A ray of light from the brilliant morning sun went through the broken window and shone down onto the inside of the temple, revealing checked marble floor, much like a chess board. Around the room, many different objects were scattered. Many were ancient relics.

A single figure knelt against the floor in front of a grey statue of a man, which wearing a white monks habit with a black sash tied across his waist. The figure had his head bent down and his hands pressed together, his fingers touching as if in prayer. He was attired in a grey monk's habit, with the hood pulled over his head. A shadow was cast across his face. He wore nothing on his feet and they were brown and dirty.

The man was one of the last disciples of The Lost One. The religious had been all but lost with time, as giant cities had prospered, and men forgot about how they were created, or even didn't care. Greed slowly corrupted the heart of man, making it so that people didn't care about anything over than themselves, or maybe the next profit.

Several remnants from the demonic sect exist in this evil world, and the monastery was one of them. One or two people a month came to pay their respects to the dark lord, out of the many millions of people who live in the city. Only the most devoted monks come, in the hope of contacting with The Lost One.

The man let out a sigh, and he saw his breath rise in a cloud of white. The early morning chill hadn't yet let go of the region. Frost still coated the ground in its icy grasp, making the ground crunchy to walk on. It was late autumn, and most of the leaves had dropped from the trees.

He slowly stood up, his movement sluggish, before reaching down to pick up the Holy Book. The pages inside were yellowed with age, and it was encased in worn brown leather with several strange symbols depicted on it. One of the pictures showed a picture of a dragon with fire raging from it's mouth, whilst another revealed a small boy holding a glowing key.

The scripture described The Lost One and his achievements, as well as his greatest failure; mankind. Such a book was tedious to read, but the monks of the Lost were faithfully to a custom that was slowly dying out.

Many years ago, long before the religion of The Lost One had began to expire, every household had a copy of the Holy Book. Slowly, however, with many new inventions and theories, people began to distrust the true accounts of the disciples. By the time the industrial revolution had rolled on by, several people had tried to disprove the Holy Book.

One of the famous ideas about the Holy Book was that it wasn't finished. All of the Disciples were killed before they could complete their entries. Why they were killed is unknown.

The man in the grey habit turned to the exit.

Instantly he knew he had made a mistake.

He stopped as he saw a single figure standing in the corridor which led to the outside world. The figure was donning a long red leather coat which extended down to his knees in cape-like fashion, as well as a black arm-less vest and leather trousers. He had white hair which was parted with his bangs brushed down. On his hands he wore black boot. Resting on his back was a long silver broadsword that looked otherworldly in design. He was leaning against a pillar almost casually, and in his hands he held…

Two guns.

The pistols were a pair of silver semi-automatic M1911-style handguns. The figure hadn't seemed to have noticed the monk, and was instead studying the gun. With his left hand he slowly ran his thumb across the edge of the mouth, his feet tapping on the ground in rhythm with the music he was listening to. He seemed to be smirking at some private joke of his, paying no attention to the priest. His finger curled around the trigger, as he pretended to fire a bullet at the floor. His eyes widened with pleasure and they seemed to have a certain light to them.

The monk froze with fear at sight of the weapon. His left hand darted to the hilt of his sword, which was sheathed at his waist. However, drawing the weapon would be futile. Wearily he sighed, regaining his composure.

The man in the leather attire looked up, and the look on his face made it seem as if he hadn't known the religious man was in the monastery. However, he smiled, as he acknowledged the man's fear.

"What luck…" the man in the leather spoke, his moderate in pitch and a bit cocky in tone. He paused, and then motioned for the priest to come to him with his left hand.

The priest shook his head rapidly, obviously declining the offer. The man sighed, picked some dirt from his right index finger with his left hand, before slowly raising his gun. At a leisurely pace he aimed at the monk's left leg, before pulling the trigger once.

Faster than the eye can see a lead projectile shot out of the mouth of the gun, speeding through the air at one hundred miles an hour. The man didn't have time to dodge before the bullet embedded itself in his left leg. He screamed in agony and collapsed to the ground, writhing on the marble floor.

A small but steady trickle of blood spilled from his leg, dampening the floor. Slowly a pool of blood began to spread out, as the monk struggled to stand again.

"I'll give you one more chance to come with me quietly, so I don't have to kill you on the spot," the man said, casually juggling the gun to the opposite hand. "If you leave with me, I'll give you a quick and painless death," he finished, before slouching against the pillar again.

The monk moaned as he tried to stand, before collapsing. His right leg couldn't take his whole weight. He screamed, and the pained howl echoed around the temple.

"Hmm… that's not what one would call quiet…" the man whispered, his expression turning to a glare. He didn't enjoy torturing people at all, in actuality.

It was just his job as a devil hunter.

The monk whimpered, before speaking.

"Please… why are you doing this… who are… you?" he spoke quietly, weak with the pain from the bullet wound.

"The name's Dante," the man spoke, answering the monk's second question, completely ignoring the first. A brief flicker of recognition filled Dante's eyes as he glanced at the statue, which was quickly replaced with hate. Raising his guns once more, he aimed at the statue's head, before firing once. The bullet impacted on the stone, making the head crumble.

The monk gasped as he saw with disbelief what Dante did to the sacred monument of The Lost One. Why would a man harm a statue, anyway?

Before he could ponder this any more, Dante lowered his guns, aiming towards the monk's head.

"I suppose I will have to be quick… the authorities would have heard weapons firing by now…" The white-haired male said calmly, almost politely, in the same manner as if talking about the weather, more to himself than to the monk. The priest closed his eyes and clenched his fists, as Dante slowly curled his finger around the trigger. "Jackpot," he spoke with a slight laugh, before pulling on the trigger.

A spray of blood as the bullet impacted through the monk's skull, going through the brain before smashing its exit through the back of the monk's head. The monk's body fell limp and still, as blood pumped from the wound, turning into a quickly spreading pool which soon engulfed the smaller pool from the monk's leg wound.

Dante wiped his face with one of the sleeves of his jacket, before licking his lips. The liquid tasted salty on his tongue. He then looked to the ceiling of the monastery. Spying the window, he crouched down low. The window was at least twenty meters high up.

Moving upwards rapidly, going from crouching position to standing, then jumping, Dante seemed to fly through the air in slow motion. He had used his demonic abilities to leap to the window. Casually sitting down in the broken glass, he took a minute to observe the inside of the monastery. He nonchalantly placed his guns in his holsters. He then took out the rose in his top pocket and twirled it in his right hand calmly, observing it with a blank face, before throwing it up into the air.

Slowly descending through the air, the rose fell through the monastery, caught in the sunlight. It glided through the air silently, and its color seemed to be changing. As it neared the ground, the color seemed to change from a bright red to black nearly instantaneously.

The flower landed on the dead body of the monk, and a drop of red liquid slowly trickled down from the bud of the rose, running down the green stem before dripping and combining with the crimson red of the monk's blood.

The police would arrive soon. Dante sighed at his work, and with his left hand he stroked his hair, before standing up and taking another leap. Within a moment, he had disappeared from sight.

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